I’ve mentioned before that I don’t particularly like numbered-list blogposts. They just feel artificial to me. So…um…here’s one about editors. Sorry.

1. We edit because we love books and writers but also for the money.

2. It’s a good thing we love books and writers. (And Ramen noodles.)

3. We don’t laugh with maniacal glee while slicing and dicing our way through your manuscript. We know how hard it is to write, and how much harder still it is to share that writing with a virtual stranger – especially someone whose job it is to find all the things that don’t work. We do, however, cringe and swear a lot. This is not because we hate you. It’s because we like you and want you to succeed and are frustrated because you aren’t there yet. (Or may never get there. Yeah. We do think that about some of you. Thankfully “there” is a subjective place that doesn’t necessarily mean lack of publishing success.)

4. We have nightmares about your stories. Sometimes this is because the story is scary. Sometimes it’s because the writing is.

5. We fall in love with some of your characters. The best ones move into our brains, just down the street from Katniss and Hermione.

7. We understand and fully endorse the health benefits of a standing desk. We sit anyway.

8. We frequently feel invisible. How often do you hear published authors talking up their editors? Yeah, it happens. Just not very often. We’re mostly okay with this, because we sincerely welcome an author’s success. But every once in a while we’d like to be recognized for the role we play.

9. We read a lot. Not just the manuscripts you send us, but also the books that pile up on our virtual and/or actual nightstands. Reading good books is how we get better as editors. Yes, I know. It’s how you get better as writers, too. See? We’re not so different.

10. We do our level best to know and wear your writing voice when editing so the notes and changes not only resonate with you, they sound like you. Sometimes this is easy. Sometimes it’s nearly impossible, like when you haven’t written enough to establish a voice yet.

11. Once in a while we get things wrong. Editing isn’t a science; it’s an art. We have off days just like you do. Listen to our advice, consider it carefully, but don’t ignore your own inner editor. Because it’s your book. We’re just trying to make it your best book.

12. There is no twelve. I deleted it because it didn’t add anything to the narrative. Sometimes we do this with your manuscript too.

13. We respect you a lot. But we respect your story just a little bit more. Don’t take it personally.

Writers are notorious self-talkers. We have to be. All of our employees live in our head. Self-talk is our way of motivating them to do their jobs.

But not all our self-talk is helping. Some of it is de-motivating those employees. Yes, it’s true that there are a few uniquely-wired writers who seem to be genuinely motivated by de-motivation. If repeating “I’m a loser!” inspires you to greatness, well…good for you. (And be sure to tip your therapist.) But be careful. Negativity (and also just plain wrongful thinking) leaves a residue that can poison your writing life.

The solution seems simple enough: just use self-talk that actually helps and avoid the stuff that doesn’t. Yep. But it’s not as easy as it seems. Some self-talk appears to be positive, when it actually isn’t. Here, I’ll show you.

Don’t say… “I’m going to write a bestseller” (see also: “I’m going to be the next J.K. Rowling”). Why not? Isn’t that every writer’s dream? Not exactly. Because you don’t write a bestseller. You write a book. Then, if the literary wind favors you and blows your book into the right hands, it becomes a bestseller. (Lucky you.) If your motivation is “writing a bestseller,” your chances of falling short of that goal and into a deep, desperate depression are…well, it’s a really big number. Will some of you write a book that becomes a bestseller? I hope so. Probably. But not most of you. Still want to write? Good. Then keep reading.

Do say… “I’m going to write the best damn book I can.” Yes. Please say this. Every time you sit down at the computer or legal pad (remember those?). And then do what you say you’re going to do. Write, read, learn, apply. I don’t care what genre you’re writing – romance, science fiction, mystery, bacon (it’s my blog, I can make up genres if I want to), whatever – and I don’t care if you think you’re a literary writer or can’t tell the difference between David Foster Wallace and David Foster – if you can find motivation in writing well, you will always be successful.

Don’t say… “I’m brilliant.” You might be. I suspect you are, actually. But unless you’re just rehearsing ironic self-effacing humor for the talk show circuit, this kind of self-motivation will be self-defeating. Especially when you see the notes from your editor. You are what you are as a writer. And the only person who can rightly call you brilliant is…anyone but you.

Don’t say… “I suck as a writer.” Yeah, you do. You shouldn’t even be allowed near a laptop. Really? Does saying that to yourself help? Try this instead…

Do say… “I have a long way to go as a writer.” Then just…um…keep going. The journey isn’t the only thing, maybe not even the most important thing, but it is a Very Important Thing. This is true of every writer on the planet. It should be, anyway. Let me know if you ever come to the end of your abilities. Then we need to talk.

Don’t say… “I don’t have enough time to write.” I totally understand this statement. I say it more than most. But what I’m really saying is “I’m not willing to change my writing habits right now.” We say this because we think we need something more than what’s available to us. Two hours instead of the one that sits before us. A whole day instead of an afternoon. A weekend away from distraction instead of these impossible 15 minute windows. I still need to work on this one. If I wrote during a tenth of the small pockets of time that appear in my day, I’d have completed a dozen novels by now.

Do say… “I’m not going to beat myself up if I don’t write today.” How does this motivate? Well, it gives you permission to live. Writers have to be intentional with that sort of thing. Because what are we doing when we’re not writing? We’re thinking about writing. Tell yourself it’s okay not to write all the time, not to dwell on it every waking second. Go outside and enjoy the scent of rain for what it is instead of worrying about how you’re going to fix that scene where someone is enjoying the scent of rain for what it is.

Don’t say… “I’m ten times a better writer than [insert bestselling author here].” What’s wrong with this? It’s true, isn’t it? Well, maybe. It depends on how you measure “better.” (Frequency of adverb use?) Look closely at the statement. It’s a dangerous motivator. Sure, it could push you to the page, propel you forward to The End. But once again, there’s’ a good chance it will ultimately lead to disappointment. Think about it. What does “being a better writer than someone else” get us? Well, we hope it gets us more attention from agents and editors and readers. In a perfect world, it does. But that result is entirely in their (subjective) hands, not ours. The only two things we’re certain to get from such a claim are smugness and a sense of entitlement. If you ask me, smugness and entitlement don’t look that good on (most) writers.

Do say… “I am a writer.” Those four words are magic. Say them often. When you’re in front of the computer or stuck in traffic. When you’re looking in the mirror or lingering in a bookstore. When you’re frustrated and when you’re encouraged. “I am a writer.” Say it again. “I am a writer.”

Life happens. And then it keeps happening. And by the time it starts to happen a little less – by the time you might actually have a little mental space for thinking thoughts and time space to write them down – you realize you’re used to the empty page, at peace with the simplicity of having written nothing.

The blog light grows dim, the empty page becomes an empty stage. There are no actors in the wings. No orchestra in the pit. No director pacing back and forth scribbling notes in his head.

But there are people in the audience. Some are regulars, virtual friends who visit every day just in case. Others are strangers who wandered in off the street because the door was open. And then there’s that creepy guy who lives in the balcony.

They’re here because of you. They want to see what you can do. They want to be entertained and informed. They want you to confirm and erase their fears with clever wordplay. They want you to shake the rafters with brilliance and break their hearts with unresolved chords. They want to feel. They want to applaud.

They get it, of course – they understand that life happens. It happens to them, too. They’ll give you grace for that. But now…now they’re beginning to wonder where you’re going with this.

And so are you.

So you cut the lights and exit the metaphor, stage left.

The regulars smile knowingly. The strangers wonder why you didn’t just edit the metaphor out of the blog post in the first place. The creepy guy who lives in the balcony falls to his knees, stunned to tears by the wisdom hidden so deep within the metaphor even you can’t see it.

And then you’re back to the empty page. Staring at it.

You’re tired of trying to be clever. You’re tired of trying to be wise. You just want say something small, something simple, something true. And so you begin…

The empty page is a curious thing. It seems to have a mind of its own.

It cajoles. It demands. It threatens. It pleads. It heaps guilt.

But that’s not the empty page. The empty page doesn’t care what you do.

Writing is a lonely business. This does not come as a surprise to you. Whether you write in the midnight quiet of a room lit only by the glow of your laptop, or in a crowded coffee shop exploding with sound and color and scent, you do it alone. No one shares your headspace when you’re trying to choreograph the tapping of fingers on keyboard with the spin and leap of ideas.

A writer, while writing, dances alone.

There is exhilaration and debilitation in this truth. That a man, woman or child can organize words gathered from a thousand places into a story that exists in no other place is nothing short of magic. That it is among the most challenging of tasks to turn that story into something another can love is nothing short of soul-defeating.

We write alone because there is no other option. Yes. I know about collaborative writing. Two heads better than one and all that. [Hi Tosca and Ted. Hope the third book is going well.] But even if you share the process with another writer, you’re still the only person who can live in your head at any given time, multiple personalities notwithstanding. This means that you and only you are responsible for taking what’s in that head and making it presentable for the rest of us who don’t live there.

This is where you take all the knowledge you have about writing, – all the education and experience and earned intuition – and pour your story through it. As you press the words through that sieve, you pray what drips to the final draft is as pure, perfect and lovely as the idea that sparked your writer-brain in the first place.

When you hand the story to an editor, you find out your fingers missed a few things that your brain meant. When you hand it to a copyeditor, you discover your editor missed a few things that your brain meant, too.

And then you’re done. The story is as good as it’s going to get.

Except it isn’t. You’ve forgotten about the other authors.

Some people call them readers.

But they are authors, too. They write between the lines. They hear the characters’ voices. The protagonist sounds like Hugh Jackman. Did you know? They taste the wine on page 37. It is surprisingly sweet. Like the wine they had that one time in that restaurant. They see the freckles on her neck. How had you missed this?

The other authors aren’t as skilled as you. They haven’t studied the craft. They haven’t wrestled the demons of writerly doubt. They don’t know there’s a civil war raging between the semi-colon apologists and the semi-colon abolitionists. But if you’ve done your job well – if you’ve given them enough – theirs is easy. Because they don’t have to write it down.

They write only in their heads, and it’s only there that the story you started in your own finally finds completion.

The other authors finish what you started. And if they call you brilliant, it is their fault, too.

The first time you ran into a wall it came as a surprise. Not because you didn’t believe in walls, but because you didn’t know they could appear in the middle of a sentence.

But you broke through it like the Kool-Aid Man, with the same broad smile, the same blatant disregard for plaster and paint. Because you were a writer and that’s what writers do. They persist.

And persist you did. Through the next wall and the next, until one day you hesitated.

Do other writers run into this many walls? you wondered.

Writing used to be about ideas and dreams. Once, you were an architect with an empty skyline and a pocketful of girders. But something happened along the way. You were demoted to demolition. Oh, you found certain strange satisfaction in the power to destroy with the press of a button. But it didn’t last. Before long you were staring at ten thousand craters where a hundred buildings should be.

On that day, and with dust-choked despair, you thought The Thought That Must Not Be Thought.

“Maybe I’m not a writer after all.”

In that moment, the earth stopped spinning, the Walden woods grew dark, James Patterson put down his pen. Everything and everyone waited.

Would you walk away? Would this be the wall that defeats you? Would you give up your dream? Could you?

You sighed in resignation. No, not yet. Every other writer sighed in relief.

And the world resumed its spin.

You took stock.

This is not as easy as it once was.

You are not as good as you thought you were.

You have a lot to learn about writing. About re-writing. About trusting your instincts. About breaking bad habits.

You do not yet suffer in brilliance; you suffer because you’re not yet brilliant.

And so the wall looks at you. You look at the wall.

You lift your fingers, set them gently on the keyboard. And you begin again to write.

Meanwhile someone is watching from a little ways off. She looks a lot like you, only older. She smiles, then whispers, not quite loud enough for you to hear…

Posts navigation

My Novelette

Click the image to purchase my incredibly affordable novelette, "Duck," a little story about a boy and his bomb. Sort of.

About

Okay, here's the deal. This is a blog about writing fiction. I'll be updating it with wisdom and nonsense whenever I feel like it, muse and caffeine permitting. In case you're wondering, no, I'm not a real doctor, though I sometimes watch reruns of the sitcom Scrubs. I do have more than 25 years of editorial experience, which I suspect is more relevant to my selection of "noveldoctor" as a nom de plume. But lest I come across as trying to sound smarter than I really am, I'll just tell you up front that I mostly chose "noveldoctor" because it sounds cool and is easy to remember and no one else had taken it yet. (And also because "fiction-editor-with-good-instincts-on-what-makes-a-novel-great" seemed excessive.) For more info about me, read the Stephen Who? page.

If you're interested in hiring me to help with your novel, check out the Editorial Services page. By the way, it pays to plan ahead if you're hoping to work with a specific editor. If I'm that specific editor, you might want to click the link. I update my availability on the page every few weeks.(This ends the advertising portion of the sidebar intro.)

I hope you will read and comment on my blogposts. I can't promise brilliance, but if my words inspire, challenge, entertain, or confound you even a little bit, isn't that enough?

Oh, and I write short stories sometimes. They can be rather angsty. And yeah, I just made up that word. You can pretty much add the letter "y" to any word and it works. Click here if you want to read some of these stories.